Chapter 7 Monica's scheme

GENESIS

"Stop fiddling with your food and eat," he commanded, his voice echoing with a deep authority that made me catch my breath. He was sitting uncomfortably close to me on the adjacent stool, right by the counter.

It wasn't that I didn't want to eat; the meal looked absolutely delectable, and my stomach rumbled like a beast at the mere sight of it. The real issue was that if I consumed more than my allotted share, I would face punishment, and that was something I desperately wanted to avoid.

"Go ahead, take more," he urged as I twirled the spaghetti around my fork. I hesitated but eventually took a bit more, quickly bringing it to my lips before he could demand that I stuff my mouth even fuller. Despite the bath he had given me and the moments of apparent kindness, I knew better. People like him were the worst, pretending to care while hiding a monstrous side, unpredictable and dangerous, much like Jimmy.

I understood that I had to stay alert, to keep that lurking monster within him at bay. Yet, deep down, I feared it was only a matter of time before it would emerge, as it always did.

"Do you want me to feed you?" he asked, his tone chilling and low. I tensed but quickly shook my head. I took another bite, and I heard him exhale sharply.

"That's not enough. Why won't you listen?"

Tears threatened to spill from my eyes; I couldn't eat any more, and I didn't want to.

"Why are you crying?" he snapped, frustration evident in his voice. That's when I realized tears were streaming down my cheeks. I hadn't even noticed them escape, and I hunched over, knowing he was truly angry. Here it comes.

He shrugged, "Honestly, why should I care? Just eat however you want." I remained silent, my gaze fixed on the plate as tears began to fall onto it.

"I said, eat however you want," he repeated. I felt the chair creak as he shifted, causing me to tense up. But then I heard his footsteps. Slowly, I opened my eyes and realized he was no longer beside me. Turning my head, I could hear the television and some rustling in the living room, confirming he was still around.

But why had he left? I had anticipated some sort of reaction from him, and his inaction unsettled me.

Reluctantly, I turned back to my meal. I took five more bites of the pasta and managed to eat just one meatball. Once I finished, I gulped down the juice in one swift motion. It was cold, refreshing, and far better than what we had back home.

Afterward, I carried my plates to the kitchen, packaged the remaining food for tomorrow, stored it in the fridge and started washing the dishes. I noticed the washing machine nearby, but I had no idea how to operate it. Monica had never let me use the one at home, and it barely lasted; one morning, I came down to find it gone, Monica had sold it, I was certain. But I never had the audacity to ask her why.

"What are you doing?" a low voice whispered in my ear, startling me so much that I dropped the glass plate, shattering it on the floor. I looked up to see him standing there, and then my gaze fell to the broken pieces. I quickly dropped to my knees.

How had I not heard him come in? Why was he so close? Now I had done it; this would surely lead to punishment. But perhaps that would be a relief, as it would confirm he was just like the others, dispelling any foolish hope I had that he might be different.

I swiftly reached for the shattered plate, my fingers instinctively moving to gather the pieces. "What are you doing? Get up and leave it alone; you'll cut yourself!" he exclaimed, his voice laced with concern. Yet, I persisted, determined to clean up the mess. To my astonishment, he bent down, grasping my hand firmly, and I instinctively shielded my face with my other hand, allowing the jagged shards to tumble back to the floor.

"I'm not going to hurt you. Just stop that and get up; you're going to injure yourself," he insisted, gently removing my hand from my head. I could feel my heart racing as I turned to face him, breathless and bewildered.

In a swift motion, he pulled me to my feet, but in my clumsiness, I stepped on a sharp fragment of glass, a silent gasp escaping my lips as pain shot through my foot.

"Damn it," he muttered, his gaze fixated on the red droplets that began to stain the pristine white tiles beneath us. I followed his eyes, then looked up at him, fear creeping into my chest.

"This is what happens when you don't listen. Come on, let's get that checked out," he said, pulling me forward. I stumbled, and he let out an exasperated sigh, the tension in his jaw evident as he clenched his teeth.

Without warning, he scooped me up in his arms, cradling me like a bride, and my heart raced at the unexpected gesture.

"Am I supposed to care for a wife or a child?" he grumbled as he carried me toward the counter, positioning me carefully before sitting me down. He lifted my injured leg to examine it, his expression a mix of frustration and concern.

"This is definitely not how I envisioned my day going," he muttered, motioning for me to hold my leg steady. I complied, and he reached for the top shelf, retrieving a first aid kit and dropped it on the counter with a loud thud that made me flinch. He glanced at me, eyebrows raised, and I quickly averted my gaze, feeling a wave of embarrassment wash over me. I heard him exhale deeply before he took my leg in his hands and began to clean the wound.

While he tended to the injury, I stole a glance at him through the strands of hair that fell across my face, and a wave of confusion washed over me. What was his motive? He clearly seemed annoyed with me, yet he refrained from striking me. Why was that?

Could this be part of Monica's scheme?